


The Longest Hour

by nwspaprtaxis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bruises, Burns, Cuts, Gen, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Bobby Singer, Unconsciousness, Undefined Timeline, ohsamtripleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-25 14:49:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwspaprtaxis/pseuds/nwspaprtaxis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>... is just before dawn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Longest Hour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kettle_o_fish](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=kettle_o_fish).



> **_A/N:_** There's a [Triple Play Challenge](http://ohsam.livejournal.com/659989.html) on Livejournal's **ohsam** comm. In which the goal is to have both art and fic for a three-part prompt. 
> 
> My fill is for **kettle_o_fish** 's [prompt](http://ohsam.livejournal.com/659989.html?thread=3728405#t3728405):
> 
>   1. Hospital
>   2. Dean, Bobby
>   3. Bobby sits vigil over both badly hurt brothers.
> 

> 
> Special thanks to **quickreaver** not only for the glance-through and catching stupid mistakes because I wrote this on the fly, but also for being such a spectacular mod and host. Also, **kettle_o_fish** , I hope this little thing makes your day all bright and shiny!
> 
>  ** _Disclaimer:_** Do not own. Am not making a profit. Just simply having fun with their psyches and returning them slightly more battered to Kripke and Co. and all that Yada Yada.

When he walks into the emergency room of the Hospital in Battle Creek, a little after midnight on Tuesday night, he’s directed to Intensive Care and his stomach constricts around the hard, fist-sized rock that seems to have settled in there. The nurse on duty gives his ID a cursory glance and takes him to room 108. He’s irrationally relieved that they’re in the same room and he won’t be spending the night roaming the halls, trying to split himself because both of them cited him as a backup next-of-kin now that John’s gone. _Dennis Winters_ and _Seamus Winters_ are logged in black marker beside BED ONE and BED TWO, respectively, on the dry-erase board just outside the door and he makes note of the aliases. He takes a breath and enters the dim room.

In the yellow light of the wall sconce, he sees that Dean — _Dennis_ , Bobby reminds himself — is in the bed nearest to the door. The kid’s too pale, his pallor all chalk-white and skim-milk, and obviously out for the count. Bobby takes in the purplish, slightly-bruised look of his eyes and lips and doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the sight as he tracks the length of Dean’s form, registering the IV stuck into the crook of the kid’s arm and the outline of bandages through the thin sheet. There’s darker patches — dry, maroon-looking — seeping through the folds and weaves of the gauze. He winds around the bed and pushes the blue partition against the wall and stutters to a halt. He’d expected Dean to be in rough shape — Lord knows the idijit would’ve thrown himself between Sam and whatever fugly they were up against — but for Sam to be just as still, face slashed up and bruised, hands wrapped up in gauze is a shock. The kid’s color is a little better than his brother’s so there’s that, but he’s still strung up to an IV and looks like he’d walked into a chainsaw. He lets out a harsh exhale and pulls the chair from Sam’s — _Seamus’_ — bedside. He sets it exactly halfway between the two beds, sits, and prepares for a long wait.

Sometime towards dawn — he’s surprised the nurses haven’t tried to kick him out and he doesn’t let himself think what it implies — Sam stirs, whimpering and groaning softly. His burned fingers, swollen and red, twitch against the sheet, blanket, and Bobby’s at his side. His eyelids flutter but he doesn’t surface to complete awareness.

“Dean?” He mumbles hoarsely and closes his eyes again. When there’s no response, he makes a superhuman effort to open them again, panic showing in every line of his tense, wired frame.

“Easy,” Bobby says, placing a palm on the kid’s chest before the fool tries to get out of bed or some such dumbass stunt. “Your brother’s here. Out cold, but he’s gonna be fine.” Course, he has no idea if that’s really the case; the nurses haven’t said much and he hasn’t had time to collar a doctor, but his words have the desired effect, or maybe it’s because the kid saw his big brother in the next bed, and he settles back. He’s exhausted, sick-looking now that he isn’t fueled by adrenalin. He’s sweating a little, shivering, and Bobby registers the slightly above-normal heat radiating into his palm. “Git some sleep,” he says gently. Sam doesn’t quite obey his words, still struggling to stay aware. The tip of his tongue snakes out, laps at the split in his too-dry lips, and Bobby gets it. He reaches over, snags the cup of room-temperature water and a sponge-on-a-stick. He dips the sponge into the water and swabs it over Sam’s lips, sliding it into the boy’s mouth. He feels Sam clamp desperately on it, sucking all the possible moisture out of it. They repeat the song-and-dance a couple of times until Sam’s too worn out to take another swallow and slips back under. He still doesn’t like the sheen on Sam’s face, the perspiration that reflects the dull light above his head, and he wants to know what the fuck happened.

Instead, he lowers himself, all creaking joints and soft grunts, back into the uncomfortable chair he knows will fuck with his back and knees, and watches.


End file.
